Single Dad Next Door: A Fake Marriage Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  “Oh my God,” she breathes from the backseat. Her perfectly curled platinum blonde hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat.

  I slam the gas, spinning the tires for a second before they get traction and we tear out of the parking lot. I can still see the venue in my rearview. Over fifty thousand fans in there just watched me pull the biggest country music star in the US off-stage. They would probably be upset if eight masked men hadn’t rushed after us.

  “This is fucking insane,” says Jannette. “What were they thinking?”

  “They might have just wanted to get you off the stage. To draw you out like this,” I say.

  “Then why did we leave?” she demands.

  I shift gears, fishtailing around a corner and catching a glimpse of the three cars speeding after us. I hear them slam on their brakes when they can’t make the turn fast enough. “Because they don’t know who they’re fucking with. Do you want to run and hide, or do you want to send a message?”

  I glance at her in the rearview. She’s frowning. “Run?” she asks.

  “Wrong. I’m not the best because I wait for my clients to be targeted and react. I’m the best because I find the source of the problem and fucking shut it down.”

  I hit the emergency brake and skid to a stop in a dimly lit alley. “Wait here. Don’t get out for anything. Do you understand?”

  She shakes her head. “Just keep driving.”

  “No. We’re sending a message,” I say.

  I stand outside the car, headlights beaming from behind my back. The three cars pull in front of us a few moments later, slowly crawling to a stop. They park, and for a long while, nothing happens. I’m standing, Glock in my hand, waiting, and none of them get out of the car.

  Finally, the doors open and men start to file out. Four men wearing gold goat masks and black clothes with their hoods up.

  I hold my gun up, making sure they see it, and then set it on the hood of my car. I crack my knuckles and roll my shoulders, planting my feet wide. The men glance at each other and nod, moving toward me. I have friends in the justice system, and I can get away with a certain level of violence, but I don’t push it unless I have to. Besides, I still haven’t found a message I couldn’t send loud and clear with my fists.

  These are the moments I live for now. The five of us are brightly lit by the headlights, and there’s no sound but the idle hum of engines and feet scuffing on wet pavement. The only thoughts in my head are pure--primal--hurt or be hurt. Kill or be killed. Do the job.

  I walk toward one of the masked men, leaving my arms at my side. Before I can throw the first punch, the biggest of the masked men steps forward, holding a hand up.

  “Jesse Slade,” says the man. His voice is being run through some sort of distortion device that makes it sound inhumanly deep. He tilts his masked head in a way that makes me imagine he’s sneering. “I see you’ve stayed in shape over the years.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” I growl.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “A ghost, you could say..”

  “I’ll rip that fucking mask of your face and jam it down your throat. Who are you?”

  He laughs. “I’m sure you would like to. But my plans for you are just beginning. Tonight is just so you know the game has begun. You’re marked, Slade. And we’ll be coming for you when you least expect it.”

  I suddenly wish I had just shot the fuckers, but now they all aim weapons at me, preventing me from doing anything but watching this asshole walk away.

  The man backpedals casually, twirling a finger over his head. “Pack it up boys.” He gets behind the wheel of his car and then sticks his head out the window. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Slade.”

  I drain a Jack and Coke at the bar. I’m not sure how many I’ve had, but I’m almost drunk enough to forget about tonight. Almost drunk enough to stop running in mental circles trying to figure out what the hell that was, and who he could have been. God knows I’ve pissed plenty of people off in my life, especially since I came back from overseas. He could be a pissed off boyfriend of some woman I’ve fucked. Hell, maybe I killed his father while I was in the service.

  Janette Springfield wasn’t thrilled with how I handled the situation and has requested a new bodyguard. Fuck her though. She shot enough cocaine in the short time I knew her to supply the filming of Scarface. She hardly knew where she was or what was going on anyway.

  I glance at my glass of Jack and huff a laugh. Look at me talking. I’d gladly trade places with her if it meant forgetting, but forgetting would be a betrayal. Remembering the men who died under my command is part of my pennance. Every day I think of each one of them and every day it reopens the wound. But that’s the price I have to pay.

  They died because of me.

  I already have another job. This stalker shit is good for business, at least. The new client wanted to remain anonymous, according to Vivian, but she was able to tell me it’s another actress. I’ll take actresses over music stars any day. There’s a lot less travel involved, and that makes my job much easier. Either way, I meet the client tomorrow. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. The last thing I need is more time to sit around and stew over the past and now this fucker in the mask. Just thinking about him makes me want to break something.

  A woman at the end of the bar has been trying to get my attention for the past fifteen minutes. She has brown hair, blue eyes, and an impressive pair of tits. I swill down the last dregs of my Jack and Coke and stand. I see her spine lengthen, neck straightening. She’s careful to look at her drink. Her hands clutch the glass. Nervous. I cross the length of the bar, sensing her anticipation growing with every step. Maybe she’s seen me here before, hoped I would notice her or offer to buy her a drink. She looks like a good person, someone who would be better off without the black stain I would leave in her life. She looks up at me as I pass, hopeful.

  But I don’t meet her eyes and I don’t stop. I walk straight past her.

  I walk outside, into the night and back into the darkness.

  26

  Makayla

  The set buzzes with activity as the production team gets the last touches on camera angles and set lighting. The scene we’re about to shoot should leave fans speechless as the credits roll. Everyone expects my character, Bella Frost, to fall for Aaron, the more level-headed leader of the stalkers, but this scene is going to really surprise them.

  “Places, people!” shouts Camillo. He’s wearing a battered beige ball-cap over his thick mane of silky black hair. He has the look of a handsome man who has lived a hectic life of too little sleep and too much stress eating. He’s uncompromising, and has a reputation in the business for making his actors go through twice as many takes as most directors, but that never bothered me about him. Some of my colleagues just want to get done with the shoot for the day, regardless of the final product. Not me though. Even if it’s just a TV show, I want to make something that lasts, and I want every shot to be just as perfect as Camillo does.

  I take my spot. We’re shooting this scene in a darkened alley with a healthy dose of ominous mist swirling around our feet. I can hear the faint hum of the smoke machine behind me.

  “Andrew!” shouts Camillo. “Turn down the fucking smoke. I said create atmosphere, not simulate the actual atmosphere.”

  From where I stand, I can see behind the facade of the set, but the cameras are positioned to hide all the falsity. Jason Stone sits cross legged on the ground, wearing his character’s trademark trench coat. I try not to roll my eyes when I look at him, wondering what I ever saw in him.

  He’s strikingly handsome, but I’ve never been the type to date a guy purely on looks. Before I really got to know him, I mistook his eccentricities for sophistication. Now he just looks like an attention-seeking child to me, sitting there, clutching his forehead between thumb and forefinger, muttering to himself. He plays Jack Carpenter, the most wild and vicious of the stalkers. In the show, Aaron is constantly trying to keep Jack under con
trol and failing.

  “Ready!” Camillo yells.

  Jason stands, grabbing his fake cleaver from the ground as he does. The Mangler. He stands with his feet a little too wide and his arms hovering a little too far from his sides in an attempt at menace. I find my character, pushing out Makayla as much as I can by focusing on the sound of white noise. The best way I can describe how I feel when I act is that I mentally split myself. I close myself off from the artificial parts of the set that I can see and transport myself to the moment.

  I’m immediately drawn back to how I felt in the stairwell, cornered by the man in the gold mask. I focus on how ripped from the everyday routine I felt, how completely real it felt, like I was only truly living in those moments because they could be my last, how each word carried the power to end or prolong my life.

  “Action!”

  “What do you want?” I ask. My chest can’t seem to fill with enough air as I back away, making my words sound like a strained whisper.

  Jack Carpenter steps closer, skillfully twirling his cleaver and tilting his head. “You.”

  I back up until I feel the wall behind me and sink down there, legs too weak to hold me any longer. I shake my head, lip quivering and eyes filling with tears.

  He kneels in front of me, fixing me with icy blue eyes. “I want you to love me.”

  My thoughts momentarily break character to relish in how much this moment is going to shock fans. I remember Bella Frost’s past, and how much she always strived to get her family to love her and her boyfriends to love her. No one in her life ever actually loved her as much as they loved the idea of her. Jack Carpenter is as real as men come--completely driven by impulse--she lets herself believe that a man like this could actually give her the kind of love she has craved for so long.

  I squeeze my eyebrows together, shaking my head. “You’re a monster.”

  He leans closer, touching my cheek with the blunt edge of his cleaver, dragging it down my skin and eying me with fascination. “I love you,” he says softly.

  I swallow hard, using my most painful memory to draw up the tears. I don’t think about losing my parents or my most embarrassing moments or anything like that. I think of when Jesse Slade told me his father had been killed in the September 11th terror attacks, that he had already enlisted and was leaving for bootcamp in a week. My heart still feels raw and torn open from that moment all those years ago, and focusing on the memory makes the tears fall.

  I reach to touch Jason’s face and let him kiss me as he crouches in front of me. His lips are cold and wet. I have to press down a wave of revulsion that overcomes me until my eyes slide just past his and fall on a man standing off-set. He stands almost a head above everyone else with broad shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, and I can’t quite see his face through the lights, but something deep inside my chest responds, as if I’m magnetically drawn to this man, as if he’s calling to me. My eyes widen slightly when I realize I’m still in the middle of the scene. I look back at Jason, close my eyes, and kiss him back.

  I have to think back to how I felt kissing Jesse all those years ago to put passion in the kiss. I can hate him all I want, but Jesse might as well have been the physical embodiment of desire. Every touch, breath, and whisper from him seemed to drip with sexuality. Just the memory of his hands on me always sets my skin on fire.

  After a few seconds, we pull back, foreheads resting against each other. The moment hangs and then Camillo calls cut. This is normally the point when he tells us to reset and run the scene again, waiting only long enough for makeup to be retouched. To my surprise, he looks through the camera’s view window for a brief time and then nods in satisfaction.

  “Good work people. We’re done.”

  There’s a stunned moment of shock from everyone on set and then a flutter of activity as people excitedly get to work breaking down the set so they can get home early for once. Jason smirks at me. “I don’t remember the script calling for tongue in that kiss.”

  I roll my eyes. “Grow up, Jason.”

  “I miss you,” he says, reaching to touch my face.

  I flinch away. “We’ve talked about this, Jason. It’s over.”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he says, stepping closer to me.

  I feel the first wave of panic flush through my system just before someone steps between us, pushing Jason back with a large hand.

  “You can’t touch me!” He says indignantly.

  “Fuck off,” growls the man between us.

  There’s something familiar in his voice. It makes my breath catch. It can’t be…

  “Don’t make me call security,” says Jason, sounding exactly like the spoiled diva he is.

  “I am security, so get lost before I ruin all that pretty makeup on your face.”

  One of the set lights catches his face and I see for the first time who it is. I see the familiar features, the high cheekbones and the breathtaking jawline covered in a few days worth of stubble. I see the deep green eyes. Jesse’s eyes. My Jesse.

  He wears a suit that fits him perfectly, and damn. He has filled out since high school. He was always in good shape, but now he’s the perfect balance of power and strength. He’s broad in the shoulders and strong, but not bulky. His hair is cut close at the sides and a little longer on top. It’s dark and smooth, making me want to run my fingers through it, at least until I remember what he did to me all those years ago.

  Jason seems to sense that standing toe-to-toe with Jesse is only going to embarrass him further. He pulls out his phone and turns to walk away, muttering over his shoulder. “You have a few minutes before the real security gets here. Asshole.”

  Jesse turns to face me and for the first time, his focus is entirely on me. It literally takes my breath, drying my throat instantly. I’ve spent so long thinking about him coming back as a “what if” that seeing him in the flesh is a complete shock. It only takes one look at his face to see that he has changed. God, has he changed. It’s not just the way his once clean and boyishly gorgeous face is now rugged, hard, and irresistibly manly. It’s something in his eyes as well, a stony quality that speaks volumes for what he has been through. There’s pain in those eyes, even if he’s trying to hide it.

  I realize I’ve spent all this time mentally creating a villain out of him. I’ve been picturing him laughing over drinks with some beautiful, exotic woman he met overseas. I never stopped to consider that he might not be happy.

  I struggle between the desire to reach out and caress his cheek and the need to slap him and walk away, leaving him where he belongs--my past. It’s not my job to heal him. He certainly wasn’t around to help me heal after the damage he caused ten years ago.

  “Kay…” He whispers. His hard, calloused hand cups my neck.

  Despite my fury, I feel myself leaning into his hand, eyes closing. His touch sends fingers of heat dancing down my spine, lighting a long dormant desire that starts in my core and blossoms outward. I blush when I feel my nipples harden. Anger mingles with desire, but I force myself to focus on the anger instead. He left. He threw me away even though I was willing to wait for him. My resolve hardens.

  “Don’t,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re here, but you can do what you do best. Leave.”

  “I’m your bodyguard. Your agent hired me yesterday.” The hint of laughter in his eyes puts me over the edge. Like he knows what he’s doing to me and it amuses him.

  “No. Hell no. Consider yourself fired.”

  His hand locks around my shoulder when I try to walk away. “Kay--”

  “Don’t!” I snap, fighting down the swell of emotion that rises up. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t show him how long I’ve held the hurt he left me with. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. You can call me Miss Pierson.”

  “My fee is already paid, Miss Pierson.”

  I swallow hard, trying not to focus on how sexy it sounds to hear him call me Miss Pierson.

  “If anything happens to you now,�
�� he continues, “it will be a stain on my professional record. So, like it or not, you’re mine.” He bites his lip, smirking a little at his choice of words and at the way they make me flush red. “To protect.”

  “Not my problem. Now let me go.”

  “I made that mistake once and I don’t plan to again,” he says.

  His words make me pause, eyes locked on his. I regain my composure with considerable effort. “Let. Me. Go.”

  He releases my arm and watches me storm off the set. I pass through makeup and props, having to weave through crowds of people rushing to get home early. I throw the back door to the alley behind the studio open and nearly knock Kennedy over in my rush to get outside. She bobbles her coffee and barely manages to save it.

  “Jesus! What’s the rush?” she says, scowling. “You came out of there like a sneeze.”

  “Like a... “ I shake my head. Kennedy is notoriously bad with similes, but that one was terrible, even for her. “Nevermind. I have to go. Look I just… Jesse’s back.” I blurt the words out like an admission of guilt and start toward my car, but Kennedy hurries after me.

  “Woah, woah there killer. You mean like the Jesse? Mr. Superhot hunk you never really got over?”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “I never got over how much of an asshole he was. I got over him pretty fast.” The truth I won’t admit to Kennedy is I never did get over Jesse. I can’t admit that. He was real and strong in a way I’ve never found in a guy since. He cared for me with such an intensity that it was overwhelming at times, and the brightness of his love for me back then still makes everything after it seem dull in comparison. And kissing him was, well… It was an experience. The sensation of his touch was so overwhelming that my body had to shut down everything else. I can still remember the way he smelled--something woodsy and so completely Jesse--and the way he ignited my desire. He exuded strength and sexuality. There was no defense against the hunger and passion he sparked within me.